“No, by heaven!” said he, “No more lies.”
And yet, in spite of unalterable resolve, as he lay sleepless with overwrought nerves in the sour room in the Euston Road, he was haunted by lunatic Polish forms, Brigiovski, Brigowski, which he might adopt without breaking his vow; he could not see himself in the part of a Polish patriot labelled as John Briggs; just as well might a great actor seek to identify himself with Hamlet while wearing cricketing flannels and a bowler hat.
Only once in his talks with Boronowski did he refer to the unhappiness to which he was to apply the sovereign remedy. The days were passing without sign of immediate departure. Boronowski, under the orders of his superiors, must await instructions. Triona chafed at the delay.
Boronowski smiled indulgently.
“The first element in devotion to a cause, or a woman, is patience. Illimitable patience. The demands of a cause are very much like those of a woman, apparently illogical and capricious, but really inexorable and unswerving in their purpose.”
“It’s all very well to talk of patience,” Triona fumed, “but when one is hag-ridden as I am——”
Boronowski smiled again. “Histoire de femme——”
Triona flushed scarlet and sprang to his feet.
“How dare you twist my words like that?”
Boronowski looked at him for a puzzled moment, seeking the association of ideas. Then, grasping it: